


Old Cliches Between the Lines

by xirucem



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:18:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xirucem/pseuds/xirucem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, after completing a mission, Bond has a habit of dropping by Q's home unannounced. Sometimes he needs stitches, sometimes a drink, and usually company. It started a while back, Q isn't really sure when he started keeping his first-aid kit in the kitchen. Some nights, Bond shows up in worse shape than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Cliches Between the Lines

It was a quiet night.

Q’s penthouse was quiet as well- he liked his spacious living arrangements with what he’d been given from MI6, top security, great view of London, there wasn’t much more he needed. He had his lights on low, Frank Sinatra sang softly from his kitchen, and he was enjoying a nice book, some wine, and some rather lovely chocolate cookies he’d gotten the day before. He had on an old shirt that had been washed so many times holes had appeared around the collar, but it was soft so he couldn’t quite throw it away, a warm, dark blue cardigan that was a little big on him, and plaid pajama pants, bare feet tucked under him as he read.

There was one thing he was getting surprisingly used to. James Bond had a tendency to break into his flat without setting off any alarms some way or another, and just drop by for a drink and a chat after a mission. Sometimes they’d sit rather quietly and Q would put on old Star Trek episodes, and they’d chuckle along. Other nights he would fix Bond a meal since he seemed a bit peckish, or fix up whatever wound he had. He was getting better at stitches. Fixing electronic devices wasn’t exactly the same as human flesh, but his quick, nimble fingers had picked up the skill easily enough.

He heard the door open and Bond shuffled in. Q looked up and set his glass down, brows furrowing as he looked over the back of the couch he was sitting on. The agent didn’t seem to be in very good shape, leaning on the wall of the hall that lead into his home.

“James—are you alright?” he asked, marking his page and hurrying over, “Your arm is bleeding and—why didn’t you go to the hospital or something?” he asked. His tone was exasperated, but was still soft. “Sit- sit in the kitchen,” he said, glancing to Bond’s face. It seemed he’d been through an ordeal. The older man’s jaw was clenched tightly and he was quiet, his blue eyes stormy. 

“…I wouldn’t have picked you as the Frank Sinatra type,” James said softly, after a deep breath. He sat down at the kitchen table, holding a gash at his side. His jaw was bruised, his cheek, his ribs were aching.

“I like to keep you guessing,” Q said with a little shrug, and reached for the first aid kit he now kept in the kitchen, “Take your shirt off so I can clean that out.” He rummaged for a washcloth and dampened it with warm water as Bond took his shirt off as told. He seemed so tired, like whatever had happened just… was a bit too much. Q didn’t ask- he never did. He knew most of the missions their infamous 007 was sent on were trying. He knelt beside the other and started cleaning his side off, brows furrowed just slightly.

“It’s not so bad- not too deep anyways… mostly looks bad, I think,” he said with a tiny little smile as he glanced up at the other. Bond seemed… far away. He expected quips and sarcastic little remarks, horrendous puns- but none of those came tonight. 

He carefully cleaned the wound out with antiseptic, and James barely flinched at the sting. He hardly seemed to notice when Q started stitching the wound up. 

“…Stay here tonight,” Q said softly, a little sternness to his voice.

“What?” Bond blinked and looked down at him, almost as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“Stay here tonight,” Q repeated and started cleaning the cut on his arm, and carefully bandaged it too, “Just—just tonight. You need rest and soon. You look like hell, James.” 

The agent gave him a wry smile at that. “That bad is it?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Q sighed and started gently wiping away grime from his face, “You’ll fall flat on your face heading out and you’ll hurt yourself more or something.”

Bond chuckled and shook his head, “Alright, if you insist, Quartermaster. You know, if I’m going to be staying over at someone’s house I like to at least be on a first name basis with them.”

“You know I can’t tell you that, and don’t you dare go hacking off into my business. I’ve secured it quite well and I will know if you get into my personal information,” Q snapped, “So- how about a nickname of sorts?”

“Hmm, never mind,” James chuckled and leaned forward, resting his head on Q’s shoulder. The younger man blinked, and allowed it, a bit surprised. He was always surprised by little shows of trust that James seemed to give him. After all, they had saved each other’s lives a few times by now, and Q had to admit that he trusted James- wanted to tell him his name even. Tentatively, he ran his fingers through the other’s hair, frowning a little as he saw more bruises on his back, and heard his breath was a little raspy. He lifted his other hand, fingers lightly touching the darkening skin, wishing he had some cure-all that he could just smear across every bruise, scar, and cut that would make them fade away. James had a good heart, he had found, and couldn’t help but want to help him heal, even in the little bits he could. 

“Come on,” Q said softly after a moment of silence had passed, “Let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep on me. I know for a fact I can’t carry you.”

“Not even going to try?” Bond smirked a little as he leaned up. 

“Absolutely not,” Q shook his head and stood up, heading back into the sitting area. He downed the last bit of his wine and brought his dishes back to the kitchen, and spotted James heading towards the couch. “Don’t you dare sleep on the couch,” he grumbled, “You’ve- I don’t mind.” Of course he didn’t. He was incredibly comfortable around the other and… he seemed like he needed someone. He was lonely under all his bravado and smooth talk. Q knew that he and the previous M had been close and it was a hard loss for everyone. Especially James. After looking at his file and spotting a few notes about a certain Vesper, Q felt like he understood the man a little better. It explained a lot. 

James watched him for a moment, and nodded, “Alright, if you insist.”

“I do,” he said, and waved for him to follow down the hall. As with the rest of his home, his bedroom was crisply decorated, just as modern and minimalist as the rest with a few touches to make it seem warm and homey. He had shelves of books back in his bedroom, a few old wooden rocket ships from his childhood up at the top, a window seat with an empty teacup. He tossed his cardigan into his closet and wandered back out, pulling the covers of his bed back.

Getting in a bed with James Bond was not something that he’d ever thought he’d do, and yet here they were both crawling into his bed, getting comfortable, Q switching the lamp off, the only light coming from the windows and the lights outside. They were both quiet, the silence a little stiff. Q shifted over onto his side and gave in, snuggling up against James’ broad, strong back.

“Do you have any idea how cold your hands are?” James asked.

“Oh shut up,” Q grumbled, and slid his arms around the other. He felt a little small up against him, but the agent was warm, and even though he felt small, it was nice in a way. He slowly pressed his lips to the man’s shoulder, just soft, and felt him relax a little. Even the slightest bit was better. He tucked his face back in against the other’s neck, curling up against his warm skin. “…Goodnight, James,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Q.”

When Q woke the next morning, James was gone, but he found a note in the kitchen as he blearily walked out, fumbling as he put his glasses on. It said that the agent had gone to debrief at HQ, and in a way, it was oddly touching that a note had been left for him.

Maybe... it was time to ask Bond if he wanted to go for a drink somewhere.


End file.
